


Making of an Omega

by mznaughty01



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Dark, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Non Consensual, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mznaughty01/pseuds/mznaughty01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolves liked those who were aroused by them just fine. Good for a fuck, good for some fun.</p><p>But it was those who they could truly dominate that they enjoyed the most. Those were the boys and girls who got turned into Omegas. And not always by choice. </p><p><i>Rarely</i> by choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Friday**

Blaring music roared out of the numerous speakers set up in strategic locations throughout the club down into the glossy, wooden floorboards beneath Stiles’s feet and straight up his legs. End result was the chattering of Stiles’s teeth in tune with the fifth guitar solo of the fifth song to play since he’d been granted access twenty minutes before.

_Howlin’_.

A little cliché, but so what. This was the place to be and to be seen on a Friday, a Saturday and, hell, on _any_ day of the week. Nightly, the club opened its doors at eight and the patrons came en masse. The werewolves, because _Howlin’_ was owned by one of their kind and was a place where they didn’t have to worry about holding their feral, wild natures as tightly in check as they were required to do while out in public and in mixed or polite company. Their very own version of Fangtasia or, more accurately, their very own version of Lou Pine’s.

And the humans came because, well, because _Howlin’, thy name is temptation_. The discovery of werewolves as something more than just a nightmarish myth was still a very recent occurrence. _Howlin’_ presented the perfect opportunity to mingle with the pack oriented, introverted as a whole species in a safe (for the most part) setting sure to get even the worst of the adrenalin junkies off hard and fast.

Reality–the real life version of True Blood.

Werewolf style.

Stiles’s need to satiate his own insatiable curiosity about werewolves was the reason he’d handed over two hundred and fifty dollars to Jackson Whittemore a couple weeks back for the commissioning of a realistic ID. Jackson was a jackass, but he had hook-ups both in town and out that Stiles did not and never would. Yeah, being the sixteen year old underage son of the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, Stiles didn’t exactly inspire trust in those who engaged in illegal activities, regardless if it was something they only engaged in on the rare occasion rather than as a fulltime occupation. 

Stiles being the sixteen year old underage son of the Sheriff of Beacon Hills also meant that Jackson had thrown on a twenty-five dollar surcharge on top of his normal price of two flat _just because_ leaving Stiles with no option but to pay. Because who else was going to risk their ass to get Stiles what he had asked for? No one. Stiles had known it. Worse, Jackson’s capitalizing ass had, too.

The last twenty-five dollars had been tacked on because Stiles didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, and leave well enough alone, and Jackson _really_ hadn’t appreciated being called a jackass to his face for adding on the first surcharge. Imagine that. Jackass.

It was all good now, though. Stiles was still a full five years shy of the minimum age required by _Howlin’_ to be allowed admission, yet here he was. In the club with—

A guy sporting a typical California tan, typical bleached spikes on the top of his head and a goatee with a soul patch typical of douchnozzles worldwide stopped right in front of Stiles. He smiled, baring teeth that were very sharp, very long and very _atypical_.

—werewolves.

Eyes wide, Stiles took a big step backwards. And another. Then turned around and headed off in a totally different direction. He had every intention of talking and dancing with several werewolves tonight. Maybe even doing something a little more—flirt with a line of danger he never had before by doing something a little _sexual_ —if he didn’t totally crap out first and just go get back in his Jeep and drive the lonely hour home to Beacon Hills. But, whatever Stiles did, it wouldn’t be with the conch necklace sporting Guy Fieri number two back there.

And not because Stiles wasn’t attracted to guys, because he was ( _Hello, very recent, life altering discovery_ ), but because just no, nope, never-ever when it came to _that_ guy.

Ever since the Great Revelation two years ago, werewolves had fascinated Stiles. He’d never met one before because there were none in Beacon Hills other than the relatively new to the area Hale family. And they were so reclusive that the only reason Stiles even knew what they were was because of his dad. Stiles himself had never seen or met one of the Hales and, actually, in all truth, he wasn’t completely convinced that they _were_ werewolves.

While watching Supernatural, he had theorized a time or two that maybe the Hales were a family of demons or maybe that they were all vampires (if werewolves were real, then there was a good chance that all other supernatural creatures were, too, right?). Imagining the Hales as skinwalkers or zombies beat the hell out of the more probable reality that every member of the Hale family, who lived in a house in the middle of the woods with no one else around for miles and miles and miles, should just go ahead and change their last name to Bender.

Or Lecter.

_Annnd_ Scott always had said that Stiles watched entirely too much tv. Scott, who was currently on another date with Allison. Leaving Stiles to feel the very much the awkward third wheel. And a very big part of the reason behind Stiles finally deciding to act on his werewolf fascination which had resulted in tonight’s current adventure.

Stiles made his way over to the bar, then slid onto the only empty stool located at the very far end in a corner. He didn’t try to get the bartender’s attention because there were a million other people already crowded around who were all yelling at the guy while waving enticing twenties, fifties and hundreds. Besides, Stiles was pretty sure that although his ID had gained him admission to _Howlin’_ (admission that had been granted with a skeptical expression by the security guy working the front door as it was), there was no way he was going to be able to fool anyone into serving him anything other than a bottle of water. And then lending him a helping hand with finding the exit.

A tan, muscled arm reached past Stiles to set down a glass on the bar in front of him. The cup was filled near to the brim with a dark brown liquid with swirls of white mixed artistically through.

“Whiskey and coke,” a low, husky voice murmured.

The hairs on Stiles’s arm stood on end. He wanted to turn around and see who it was offering him the drink, but he was too scared that if he did, it would only be to find out that low and husky was the Guy Fieri lookalike. That would be wrong, and confusing, and _wrong_. On so many levels. “I’m not—”

“Old enough to drink. Or old enough to be in here. So that whiskey and coke is short on the whiskey and strong on the coke.”

Hot, moist air blew against the shell of Stiles’s ear with each word the guy behind him spoke, lighting a fire in the pit of his belly that extended straight to his cock. Stiles wasn’t even going to lie; it made him _extremely_ nervous to have a werewolf talking to him, pressed so close that he could feel a long line of warmth heating up his back although they weren’t touching anywhere.

And, yeah, in a bar full of werewolves here. Werewolves with olfactory senses that were on a mixture of speed and crack. They would all be able to _smell_ how turned on Stiles was right now. How _skittish_ he was. And this was not just any bar, but _Howlin’_ , their playground where they had absolutely no incentive to rein in their natural responses.

In fact, the reining in of natural responses was actively discouraged.

Stiles had heard the rumors, _everyone_ had. Ever since the Great Revelation, there were certain things that were only talked about in hushed tones, then swept under the rug by authorities afterwards in an effort to ensure peaceful coexistence continued between humans and werewolves. Just thinking about the fact that Stiles knew from his dad the rumors probably had more truth to them than not just served to ratchet up his nerves by a factor of ten.

Werewolves liked those who were aroused by them just fine. Good for a fuck, good for some fun.

But it was those who they could truly dominate that they enjoyed the most. Those were the boys and girls who got turned into Omegas. And not always by choice. 

_Rarely_ by choice.

Good thing it was only Alphas who could make Omegas. Stiles didn’t really have anything to worry about.

Because what were the chances that he had attracted the notice of an Alpha with all the other half-dressed, dancing, writhing bodies on blatant display in _Howlin’_ for the werewolves to pick and choose from? Pretty little given that Stiles was covered head to toe just about. His red shirt and distressed jeans were tighter than what he normally wore, but they were also downright modest in comparison to the rest of the crowd.

Hoping he gave off the impression of being calm and cool, Stiles grabbed the glass. He took a big swallow while he tried to get himself under control. The taste was sweet and sugary with the white swirls adding a slight undertone of salty, bitterness that immediately made him lightheaded. It wasn’t whiskey, because most whiskies weren’t creamy or white, unless they were some form of Irish Cream. Maybe that’s what it was, Bailey’s or some other type of cream liqueur with a whiskey base. Stiles removed the glass from his lips while he continued to try and identify what the white streaks were, but the guy grabbed hold to his hand and guided the glass right back up to Stiles’s mouth.

“Drink,” he commanded. “All of it. And don’t waste a single drop.”

So Stiles drank. Just like that low, husky voice told him to. The guy didn’t let go of Stiles’s hand until it was all gone and, when it was, Stiles licked his lips, chasing after that last bit of intoxicating saltiness. He took a deep breath, then turned around and—

Holy. Fuck.

_Not_ Guy Fieri number two. _Not_ Guy Fieri number two at all.

The man hadn’t moved one inch. Now that Stiles was turned to face him, the guy was _right there_. All up in Stiles’s personal space.

His hair was dark and he wore it in tousled spikes. His greenish-hazel eyes stared at Stiles, steady, heavy with a meaning Stiles couldn’t comprehend. One corner of his mouth was turned up in a smirk.

Christ, he was sexy.

Stiles swallowed. He felt sluggish, yet so hot, burning the fuck up. It was hard to think, impossible to concentrate, with so much sex appeal right in his face. He closed his eyes and licked his lips again, catching another hint of the unknown white cream.

When Stiles opened his eyes, it was to see that the smirk was gone. And that the guy was still staring at him. Staring at his mouth.

“I’m Derek,” he introduced himself after a few long seconds had passed, gaze never wavering.

“Stiles,” Stiles mumbled.

Derek’s eyes rose to meet Stiles’s. He grinned, revealing his lengthened canines. “Stiles, huh?” His eyes flashed red for the briefest of seconds. “You’re gonna make such a pretty little Omega for me, Stiles.”

Alpha. Jesus fuck, Derek was an _Alpha_.

The white cream...

Stiles _knew_ what it was now. The rumors, the goddamned rumors were _true_. Werewolves just _took_ what they wanted, fuck asking for permission, much less waiting to receive it.

Slipped from his lax fingers, the glass fell down to the ground. The sound of it breaking on contact with the wooden floor below was drowned out by yet another guitar solo.

When Derek took a step back with dark, bushy eyebrows hiked high in amusement, Stiles lurched off his stool. His flailing arms knocked into the girl sitting right next to him, but he didn’t care and didn’t bother to apologize as he scrambled to get away.

“You can run, Stiles,” Stiles heard Derek taunt to his retreating back. “You can run, but I _will_ find you. I will _always_ find you. You’re mine.”

Exit. Stiles needed to find the exit. _Now_.

Once outside, Stiles bent over, hands braced on his knees for support, and sucked in deep gulps of air. Then he ran to his jeep. When he pulled out of the parking lot of _Howlin’_ , it was with a loud screech of tires.

But no matter how far he ran, no matter how fast, he couldn’t escape his fate. It was much too late for escape now. Derek was an Alpha and soon, very soon, Stiles would turn into an Omega.

Stiles would turn into _Derek’s Omega_.

Then Derek would come claim him.


	2. The Transition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented and/or left kudos!
> 
> I wasn't planning to get another chapter out for a couple more days, but changed my mind and decided to go ahead and post now as I'm literally getting ready to walk out the door for a 16+ hour road trip that has a very short turnaround time, but is going to leave me exhausted and barely functioning when I come back. So, I figure if I get it out now, that gives me a little bit of extra time to work on a new chapter when I come back.

**Monday**

Exhausted. That was the only word to describe how Stiles felt. He was completely and utterly exhausted. He’d gotten no sleep Friday night after he’d returned home (too busy freaking out because of what had happened) or Saturday (still freaking out, same reason) or Sunday (freaking out because he’d been hot, could feel the changes taking place in his body and every single thought had led back to, without fail, _DerekDerekDerek_ ).

Now it was Monday and Stiles was in his third class of the day. Economics. And Coach Finstock had decided to spring a surprise test on them. That Stiles was going to fail. At least he would get the obligatory—

“You have _got_ to be shitting me,” he whispered. He hadn’t written _Stiles Stilinski_ on the top of his test. He’d written _Derek_ instead. Stiles ignored the look Scott shot at him and scratched out Derek’s name with his pen.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott hissed.

“ _What_?” Stiles hissed right back. Confident that he was writing the right name this time, _his own_ , he allowed himself to meet Scott’s questioning gaze.

Long as they had been best friends, Stiles immediately knew what Scott’s puppy dog look meant: _Everything okay_?

Stiles shrugged his shoulders. Standard response that Scott would understand: _Everything is as fine as can be expected. We’re in high school, dude._

But everything wasn’t fine. Not even close. Thing was, Stiles didn’t even know how to _begin_ that conversation with Scott. Somehow, he didn’t think it would cut it to just blurt: _So, Friday, you remember this past Friday, right? The night you left me to my own devices, which is never a good idea, dude,_ never _, you know that, well on Friday, while you went to go play tonsil hockey with Allison, I went to Howlin’ all by myself. Yeah, I know, stupid. Anyways, you know those crazy rumors about Alphas and Omegas we’ve been hearing since the existence of werewolves became common knowledge? Not so much a crazy rumor as it turns out. How do I know? Because I may have possibly, maybe, potentially orally ingested the come of an Alpha, without knowing I was doing so, and now that psychotic fucker is all I can think about?_

That explanation wouldn’t go over too well. Not with Scott. And definitely not with Dad.

Dad! Oh, shit, Stiles still had to explain what had happened to Dad! Hey, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Actually, it would probably be a very effective solution to the whole _Stiles becoming an Omega who would need to regularly consume Derek’s come, and Derek’s come_ only _since Derek was the Alpha who had made him, for the rest of his life in order to survive_ problem. Couldn’t happen if Dad committed filicide, right? Right.

A smile on his face, Stiles turned his attention back to his test and—

“What the hell!” he yelled. He had written Derek _again_.

“Is there a problem, Bolinkski?” Coach Finstock called out from the front of the room where he sat behind his desk with his feet kicked up on top of the surface. On top of a pile of what Stiles suspected was the homework they’d all turned in on first entering the classroom.

“No, Coach, no problem, I just, I just don’t feel too well, so I’m just going to go...to go see the nurse.” Stiles stood up. But rather than shoving all of his belongings into his bag so he could make a hasty escape, he followed the sudden, strong urge he felt to look out the window instead.

Derek. Wearing a black v-neck shirt, a black leather jacket and black jeans. Leaning against the side of a black Camaro.

And staring right at Stiles.

Stiles’s breath hitched. He wanted to go out there. And drop to his knees right in front of Derek. And—

Fuck no! Fuck no! Fuck no!

Swallowing more of that asshole’s come could only lead to the speeding up of this whole transitioning into an Omega phase. Thanks, but no thanks. Stiles wanted to spend as much time with Dad and Scott as possible before he ended up as some werewolf’s sex toy.

With an addiction. To come.

Christ, that was...not funny.

So Stiles sat right back down. He had to grit his teeth and hold onto the sides of his chair to prevent himself from going outside. Going to his _Alpha_.

“Change of heart, Bolinski?” Coach Finstock asked.

With a weak grin, Stiles offered, “Miraculous recovery?”

Then he picked up his pen again, being very careful to not glance at all out the window and to not glance at all in Scott’s direction. He would have to make a quick escape soon as class was over in order to avoid, at least for a little while, the questions he wasn't prepared yet to answer from his best friend. As for evading Derek—no need to even formulate a plan for that, because whenever Derek truly decided that he wanted Stiles by his side, he would come and get Stiles. 

Nothing Stiles could do about it, either. Fucking possessive ass, territorial werewolves.

 _You can run, but I_ will _find you. I will_ always _find you. You’re mine._

Eventually, the pull generated by Derek’s mere presence lessened, then faded completely. And, determined to at least get five points on his test, because five was better than zero, Stiles took his time and wrote out his name since he was capable of concentrating a little now. The _S_ came out looking suspiciously more like a _D_ and the _t_ like an _e_ and so on and so forth. At least Stiles had gotten the last _s_ of his first name correct, despite having added in an apostrophe before it for some strange reason.

Whatever.

Without a doubt, Stiles would get his last name right. There was _no way_ he couldn’t. He didn’t _know_ Derek’s last name. So Stiles just scribbled Stilinski across the top of the page without thinking twice about it.

When he looked at what he wrote—Derek’s Omega—he just quietly pushed his paper to the side and laid his head down on the table.

 _This_? Was his life now.


	3. The Transition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of my trip has been completed and the return drive isn't until tomorrow so, here, have another chapter! Fair warning, sexy times have arrived. And they're meant to be every bit as creepy as the rest of this story is, lol.
> 
> Hope you guys are still enjoying!

**Tuesday**

Stiles’s dreams had always been amazingly realistic. Ever since the death of his mother they’d been that way. A coping mechanism. One which allowed him to still see her, talk to her, _remember her,_ though he found himself dreaming of her less and less the older he got. And, whenever he did now, her voice wasn’t quite right and her facial features were always slightly off or blurry around the edges.

The dream Stiles was having right at that very moment was just as realistic as all his other dreams had been since the day of her passing...except this one wasn’t about his mom. And the details, the details were _perfect_.

There was a body plastered to Stiles’s backside. The closeness, _the intensity_ , burned him up, both on the inside and out. A direct, undeniable correlation existed between the hot, sweaty, naked form behind him and the desire that was currently rendering all of his internal organs useless other than as heat conductors.

 _Why_ was Stiles thinking about physics concepts right now? When Derek was dragging his scruff covered jaw against the tender flesh of Stiles’s neck? And rubbing his erection against Stiles’s ass?

And, whoa, hey, Stiles was undressed, too. When had that happened? Didn’t matter, despite the presence of his fucking creepy ass Alpha, this dream was _awesome_. Sure, it was also just a result of Stiles’s overly active imagination, but still...

This whole scenario was just _too good_ for Stiles to be focusing on anything other than Derek. And the pleasure Stiles could be— _would be_ —receiving very soon. His cock twitched and he moaned as Derek’s dick parted open the cheeks of his ass and pressed against Stiles's sensitive, aching to be stuffed full hole.

Seemed Stiles was in danger of reaching his happy ending sooner rather than later.

But first, Stiles planned to use this opportunity to explore, on his own terms, this connection to Derek that had been forced on him. It was likely the only opportunity he would ever get to do so and receive an answer, imaginary or not.

“Why?” Stiles tried to demand, but it came out as a breathy gasp because Derek was sucking on the skin he had damn near chafed raw with his stubble. The sensation of painful pleasure was delicious and so very, very fucking erotic.

Contrary to how werewolf culture had been depicted for years on tv before the Great Revelation, as well as in movies and books, a person could not be changed by being bitten. Only way to become a werewolf was to be born as one. That knowledge still didn’t stop the involuntary shiver from wracking Stiles’s body head-to-toe when he felt a sharp fang graze his ear.

“Why?” he asked again. _Why_ had Derek chosen to make Stiles, of all people, one of the precautionary tales Dad had been warning Stiles about for the past two years? One of those tales that began as a missing person report filed by a concerned family member and, oftentimes, ended with the discovery that the missing person was now some Alpha’s Omega, some Alpha’s _bitch_ with an incurable lifelong addiction, then explained away and fluffed over by those in charge of human/werewolf relations. _Especially_ in those situations where there was even the slightest hint of a rumor that the change hadn’t been welcomed or wanted.

“Mine,” Derek responded.

“But _why me_?”

“Mine.”

“Oh, my God, dude, words! Have you heard of them before?" Because that one syllable as a reply just wasn’t cutting it.

Talking was what Stiles did best. Half the time, his talking came out as a ginourmous word vomit and was accompanied by the wild flailing of his limbs, all dependent upon what the topic of conversation was and how invested Stiles was in said topic, that alternately amazed and terrified (mostly terrified) people.

Even when Stiles had conversations in his dreams, they were just as realistic as his real life discussions were. Like when he had nervously scuffed his feet as he’d admitted in a rush to his mother just last month that he was kinda, sorta, maybe gay. Just for her to prove that his worry had been unwarranted when she’d smiled at him and pulled him into her arms with a whispered reassurance of how proud she was of him and how she would always love him, no matter who _he_ himself loved and chose to be with.

“Shut up,” Derek growled.

Huh. Not exactly what Stiles had been going for, but at least the answer had been a two monosyllabler this time. Progress. “Bet—”

Stiles found himself flipped on his back before he could get the second half of the word, the _ter_ , out. Derek straddled him, one knee to either side of Stiles’s hips, and loomed over him, glaring. “I said, shut up.”

Four that time. _Major_ improvement.

And if Stiles hadn’t been busy ogling Derek’s eight pack, he would’ve pointed that out, but, yeah, Stiles was understandably distracted because, holy shit, _eight pack_! Seriously? Who the fuck had an eight pack? Other than Sookie’s werewolf friend that Stiles would like to fuck Alcide Herveaux, that was.

But one thing Derek possessed that Alcide did not was an ever so slightly more defined treasure trail.

Since this was a dream, Stiles was just going to indulge himself. He was just going to—

 _Not_ run his fingers down that path and help himself to a feel of the treasure to be found at the end, because the treasure was _bigger_ than Stiles’s own. Stiles was no slouch in the size department, if he did say so himself, but still, why the hell had his mind made Derek’s dick like twice the size of his? Talk about ways to give a guy self-esteem issues.

And how to do so subconsciously.

Before Stiles could open his mouth to voice his complaints, Derek sat back, then one of his huge, hot hands wrapped around both of their erections and tugged. Happy ending for Little Stilinski in three, two, one...

Stiles’s back arched, his head pushing down into the pillow, his dick up into Derek’s stroking hand, as he came.

“Fuck,” Derek muttered, then his cock twitched against Stiles’s and there was another spurt of hot wetness between them.

Eyes closed, body relaxed, Stiles enjoyed the pleasant buzz that tingled through him. He didn’t even protest when Derek’s fingers smeared their combined come against his lips and pushed the salty concoction inside his mouth. No harm. This was just a dream after all...

A loud bang on his closed door and Dad calling out, “Up, Stiles! Time for school!” jolted Stiles out of a sound sleep and into a sitting position. He looked down at his naked chest and idly wondered when and why he’d taken his shirt off and (he lifted the sheet covering his legs for verification) his pajama pants and underwear, too.

Must’ve gotten real hot up here...last...

Things _had_ gotten a bit heated during the night and not because of poor air circulation. Man, that had been one crazy ass dream he’d had.

Stiles stretched, feeling more relaxed and at peace than he had since his disastrous visit to _Howlin’_. He felt strangely satisfied, the ever present heat that had been torturing him for days banked for the moment.

Rubbing the back of a hand against the bottom half of his face, Stiles watched the resulting flakes of white flutter down to his lap. Then he became aware of just how sore and irritated his neck was.

Christ, last night _had_ just been a dream...hadn’t it?


	4. The Transition

**Wednesday**

Stiles could feel him.

Right leg jittering up and down, he scanned the wooded area that bordered the lacrosse playing field. He was sitting on the benches, waiting for his teammates to finish suiting up in the locker room so practice could begin, but was too far away from the tree line to actually see anything past the first row of thick trunks. Even so, Stiles _knew_ Derek was out there. That same pull he’d felt on Monday when Derek had been in the parking lot right outside of his classroom was back.

Along with it came a mutated, muted return of the heat, different in that it was much more of a yearning now, that Stiles had been free of since his strange, weird, _strange_ dream from the night before. And it _had_ just been a dream, because the thought of Derek creeping into his bedroom to wake Stiles up to engage in that frottage session they'd had, admittedly hot and _pleasurable_ frottage session they'd had, then afterwards feeding Stiles his come, again!, was just...creepy.

Right. So not a dream then. Because Derek was the epitome of creepiness. He was the creepiest creeper to ever creep. He was creeptastic. He was creepy like Rose from _Two and a Half Men_ creepy (but not creepy like Edward Cullen creepy because, yeah, the _Twilight_ series was not something Stiles would _ever_ admit to reading, not even to himself on the threat of imminent death, and he’d certainly never admit to spending a Friday evening holed up in his room, bag of popcorn in one hand, box of candy in the other, while mainlining the entire series of movies that he’d loaded up on his laptop, or the fact that he’d done it _more than once_ ).

Holy tangent, Batman!

Back to the point, Derek was creepy. And somewhere near. Very near.

Stiles stood up, ready to follow through on the urge to seek out his Alpha. He took a step in the direction of the trees, all the while scoping them out in search of Derek. Even a glimpse of his Alpha would do, would let Stiles know exactly where he needed to go. All Stiles required was the hint of a furry body to chase after, a flash of red eyes to lead him to the right spot or a low, rumbling growl to follow.

A low, rumbling growl. Just like the one reverberating through the air right at that very moment and seeping deep into Stiles’s bones. _This_ particular growl was not the one that Stiles desired, however. _This_ particular growl was indicative of just how upset Alpha was, how deep his feelings of aggression ran, and Stiles didn’t know what was going on, why Alpha was displeased in the first place. But he _needed_ to know, _needed_ to make everything right again.

Breaths coming in fast, furious puffs, Stiles took another step and—

A hard body crashed into Stiles from the side, snapping him out of his trancelike obsession and taking him down to the ground.

“What's up with the turtleneck?” Scott asked, grinning doofily from the vantage point he’d gained from tackling a completely unsuspecting Stiles.

And _now_ Stiles got it. Derek had seen Scott’s approach and apparently didn’t appreciate the fact that someone, who wasn’t him, was about to touch his Omega.

Yeah, well, Derek could go choke on a motherfucking dick far as Stiles was concerned and Stiles wasn’t referring to Little Stilinski either (but only due to the high threat of having his dick _bit_ off while Derek did said choking because Stiles was irrationally attached and fond of his little friend down south). Stiles and Scott had been besties for forever and a possessive Alpha was not going to change that or come between their epic brohood. Or, at least, Stiles didn’t plan to let it happen. He actually didn’t know how Scott would react once he learned of Stiles’s new status as an Omega. Because, self-preservation and all, Scott might very well decide that Stiles just was not worth the possibility of an enraged werewolf using his teeth to one day tear out his throat.

There was also the little fact that Stiles had yet to even tell Scott about being gay. But Scott was sunshine and rainbows awesome, so Stiles didn’t see it as being an issue between them at all.

_Homosexuality? Not a problem!_

_Risk of a torn out throat? Peace out, Stiles, it was nice knowing you, bud, and best of luck with that werewolf of yours!_

Stiles thumped the back of his head against the hard ground, then rolled it to the side and, yep, _there_ his stalker was, standing just outside of the tree line. Derek was still growling because, Stiles suspected, Scott was still on top of Stiles. With a hard elbow to Scott’s stomach, Stiles forced Scott off and to the side of him.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Scott moaned, rubbing a hand across his belly, “and ow! Dude, that hurt! And, really, what is with the—” Before Stiles could stop him, Scott hooked a finger in the collar of the turtleneck Stiles wore beneath his jersey and yanked down. “ _Jesus Christ_ , Stiles, what the hell happened to your—what the—is that _beard burn_? It is, isn’t it? What the hell? You got some and didn’t even tell me?”

“Chill. Out.” Stiles snapped. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Scott, who was hitting him hard with the hurt puppy dog expression to the power of gazillion, or Derek, who was giving his all to that impression of a rabid pit bull he was pulling off so effortlessly.

Or maybe he was talking to them both. Yes, _definitely_ talking to them both.

“Just saying, you could’ve told me, s’all. We are supposed to be best friends and, and— _oh_. Oh, my god, beard burn!” Big, brown eyes wide, Scott blurted, “You’re gay!”

Rubbing a hand down his face, Stiles mumbled, “I hope you know that this is _all_ your fault.”

“Huh? It’s my fault that you’re gay? Or it’s my fault that you’re gay and didn’t tell me?”

“Neither, Scott,” Stiles sighed out, exasperated. Much as he wanted to blame the whole fucked up situation on someone else, he couldn’t. Stiles’s current predicament was no one’s fault but his own because he'd been the one to decide to go to _Howlin'_ and he'd been the one to ignore every stranger-danger warning Dad had ever taught him and he'd been the one to accept a semen-laced drink from Derek. “And me liking dick is something that I just recently figured out myself, okay. I haven’t told you only because I haven’t had a chance to yet, because, y’know, of all the time that you’ve been spending lately with Allison.”

“Allison.” And the doofy grin was back.

“For fuck’s sake, dude, _focus_.” Stiles pushed up to his feet, then offered Scott a hand up as well. “Look, Scott, I'm—”

“Nah, man, it’s cool, I get it. And you know that I’m good with you being gay, right?” Scott bumped their shoulders together, then brushed all the dried mud and grass off his ass. “I know I haven’t been aro—” Breaking off mid-word, Scott’s entire demeanor changed. He took a step back, then grabbed hold to Stiles’s upper arm so he could yank Stiles closer to him, further away from whatever it was over Stiles’s shoulder that had generated his concern.

Only person back there, a quick glance confirmed, was Derek. Who at least wasn’t growling anymore (must’ve finally picked up on the fact that even Scott’s _pores_ oozed out his love all the time, all the time love fest for everything Allison), but was standing in a spot that was infinitely closer than the tree line. The expression on his face was one of pure menace as he stared at where Scott’s hand was still connected to Stiles’s arm.

“They were right,” Scott hissed, like that was supposed to mean something to Stiles.

It didn’t.

But maybe—just maybe it should.

“ _Who_ was right?” Stiles asked, surreptitiously removing himself from Scott’s grip.

“I, uh, might’ve heard some things while I was over at Allison’s last night. Her parents and aunt were talking, and they weren’t being particularly quiet, and there are a lot of things that I can’t tell you, fuck, I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this much.” Raking a hand through his hair nervously, Scott added, “Allison’s family, man. They have some crazy ass secrets that they don’t want known and—”

“Scott! Focus!”

“Right. They were talking about some werewolf dude who’s in town from New York just to visit with his family. And this werewolf apparently met someone from Beacon Hills at a nearby club and decided to make the guy his Omega, but they don’t know who the Omega is. And now _he’s here_.” Scott studied the faces of all the people standing in the surrounding vicinity with suspicion. “Dude, that means that not only is his Omega someone from Beacon Hills, but that he’s also probably someone from Beacon Hills High and that it’s also more than likely someone who’s on the _team_ with us.”

Would be so easy just to respond right now, _Hahaha, so funny, ironic thing—it’s me_! _Hilarious, right_? Instead, Stiles asked, “Does that mean...” The question trailed off as he swallowed hard. “Does that mean that you actually know who that guy is over there?”

“That’s Derek Hale.” Earnestness written in each word that left his mouth, Scott continued, “We _have_ to find out who his Omega is so we can keep clear, and keep everyone else away, too, because Derek’ll get territorial if he sees any of us as a threat and he’ll claw out all of our throats.”

Stiles snorted. “Claws? I was much more impressed when I thought teeth were involved.”

“Stiles, man, this is serious,” Scott exclaimed, “Derek—” Scott’s eyes rose a couple inches until he was looking over Stiles’s shoulder again.

When his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, Stiles turned around as well.

Derek was gone.

And Stiles knew he should be happy, _was_ happy. Which absolutely did not explain the emptiness he felt over Derek’s absence. Or the longing he felt to be near Derek again as soon as was humanly—werewolfly? alphaly and omegaly?—possible.

Wait...what? _New York_? Dad really was going to _murder_ Stiles! Because if Derek lived in New York...then that meant Stiles, who was still very much underage, would have to live there, too!


End file.
